


Chapter 2: De L'Ombre Et De La Lumière

by RosVailintin



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Ashley Dzerigian (Musician), Hollyoaks, HomeTown (Band), Sherlock (TV), Tommy Ratliff (Musician), Westlife
Genre: Aliases, Alpha Adam Lambert, Alpha Ashley Dzerigian, Alpha Brendan Brady, Alpha Dayl Cronin, Alpha Dean Gibbons, Alpha Nicky Byrne, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Real World, Artist Jim Moriarty, BDSM, Bad Ending, Belleville, Beta Josh Gray, Beta Mark Feehily, Beta Ryan McLoughlin, Beta Sebastian Moran, Beta/Omega, Blood, Blow Jobs, Cayl is bae, Charles Augustus Magnussen Being Creepy, Cheating, Chimeras, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Dark Past, Death, Dirty Talk, Dublin (City), Enemy Lovers, Eyes, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Français | French, Fuck Or Die, HomeTown is a super cool band!!, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, Lyric Codes, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mr Mystery is bae, Multi, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystery Character(s), Omega Brendan Murray, Omega Cian Morrin, Omega Harry Thompson, Omega Jim Moriarty, Omega Ste Hay, Omega Tommy Ratliff, Omega/Omega, On the Run, Organized Crime, Paranoia, Paris (City), Poisoning, Rain Sex, Rape, Shower Sex, Song Lyrics, Suicide, Threesome - M/M/M, Tragedy, Tubal Ligation, Twins, Unsafe Sex, Violent Sex, omg what have I done to my characters, seriously, someone is kept in the dark, song titles, sorry no mpreg, when everything is programmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forget about the past. It's Paris, and it's party time.<br/>Breathe in. Breathe out. It's the story of a guy called Jim, or Jimmie, as people like. The boy is back in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter 2: De L'Ombre Et De La Lumière

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Crystal Globe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343728) by [RosVailintin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin). 



> First, here we are, Chaper II (which is [originally](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343728/chapters/15324535) in French)! I'm really really excited (and nervous) to write it and I don't know why...In this chapter there will be more Richard/Jim stuff and there's actually a little fact about Richard that I don't yet wanna reveal. Anyway...hope you like it!  
> PS It was my 18th birthday the day I posted the French version, and now I've just finished my 2nd CEE simulation test. But okay they have nothing to do with each other. Nicky Byrne is representing Ireland in Eurovision in 2 days! Yay!  
> PPS Okay...I don't even know why I make this translation. I'm not changing the languages of the dialogues anyway so...Yeah why did I do it? My bestie DD said she wanted to read this chapter but she doesn't speak French so I actually did it initially for her...But okay I guess she still doesn't get half of what I'm writing lol.  
> Beta'd on 14 June 2017.

#### PART IV

You won't be the end of me. If you were the one you wouldn't hurt me so bad.

\- Westlife·How To Break A Heart

* * *

The night has never changed.

It reminds me of the night seven years ago, as dark, as quiet, and with the same secret - well, in a certain aspect, the same.

I had been thinking for a long time. This family was nothing more than a house where I could stay in, and there had never been a single evening where no one got angry. Every day my parents bickered about the smallest problems, when my father forgot to boil the water, when my mother had a bad day at work, when my grandparents added too much salt or oil in the dishes, when the housemaid put the chairs in the wrong place, whether it had anything to do with them. And as a result, I always deliberately avoid talking about family, and gradually, in this no-go area even includes articles, novels, music and artworks on this topic. I hate the way my mother talked to my father as if talking to a slave. I remember so clear the evenings when I listened secretly in the bathroom to my parents arguing, and I still had the echoes of the strident noises in my dreams several years later. Once, four days after my 12th birthday, I hid in the hot water flowing down the shower head and listened to them quarrel in yelling voices, as usual. Suddenly, all went silent. I've got no idea at all about what happened. The first thought that entered my head was that they killed each other. I'm not joking; I was ready to see their bodies when I got out, and I've even prepared the words to announce it to my grandparents. But pity that they were alive safe and sound.

That night on which I left home at midnight, they had a terrible fight for something of so little importance that I don't remember at all now, and I just hid in my room with the curtains closed and my back against the door. I couldn't hear them clearly - lucky me - but I remember hearing my mother say, '...depuis on s'est marriés et j'ai habité avec ta famille...est-ce qu'on va continuer comme ça...j'en ai assez de cette vie...' Well, she thought if they spoke French, I wouldn't understand a word. But I did; I've after all got a France-born father. I couldn't recognise more of her words. I heard myself sobbing and felt my eyelashes wet. I tried not to care and just stared at the clock. Then about ten minutes later, I felt rough, angry knocks behind me. I jumped aside, and was just in time to avoid being crashed by the suddenly opened door.

It was my mother.

'Do you still do you homework or what?' It didn't really sound like a question. She didn't even wait for my answer, 'Go and put your things away if you don't.'

'A moment.' I murmured, even if I didn't have nothing to do here at all.

'Once I get angry and YOU flee the first.' She continued as if she was hurt, and I could literally go over all her following lines in my mind; she said this every week, 'I feed this family and raise you up all these years, and I don't even seem to have the right to even be a little angry.' I had nothing to say. I didn't even bother looking at her.

'Stop being like this, now.' She slammed the door and left.

I stayed there for another ten minutes.

That midnight, before slipping out of the house, I left a little note in my late grandparents' bedroom, saying why I left, where I was going, expressing my love and gratitude for everything they'd done for me, and that I missed them always.

Richard was in Paris, in the Marais. Everything of this city was new for me, a boy at the age of 16. 'The movable feast', that's what it was, and what it still is. Getting out from the airport, I put on the earphones and turn up _Paris Sera Toujours Paris_ by Zaz, trying to find back the feelings I had when i left five years ago. Metro line 1 is still so old and dirty. I walk down the roads that I used to take, look for the people that I used to greet, listen to the language that I used to hear - but Paris is certainly never always Paris. Everything changes, EVERYTHING.

I return to the apartment where Richard and I lived. He has kept the rooms clean and tidy when I was away, and has filled everywhere with his scent of strawberry with vanilla cream.

I'm back. It's my second home, if that one in Dublin counts.

I don't know when Richard came back. I'm not yet used to sleeping at night, but having been neither asleep nor really awake the night before, I almost don't remember anything in the morning. Richard is still in his dreams next to me. I get up and get dressed as usual, and eventually put my make-up on after considering. The heavy eyeliners and eye shadows give me some strange kind of sense of security.

'Et voilà!' Damien, the young bartender, greets me as I wander into Le Wood once again after five years, 'Jimmie, tu reviens!'

'Oui,' I smile as we kiss each other on the cheeks, 'ça fait longtemps.'

'Alors t'étais où?'

'En Irlande.'

'Ah, l'Irlande! C'est belle, non?'

'Oui, très belle.' I order some finger sandwiches, a Cesar salad and a mocha, and continue, 'La pluie, les étoiles, les fleurs dans St Stephen's Green -'

'Mais pourquoi tu rentres?' Before I answer, he quickly adds, 'Je veux dire, j'suis content de te revoir, mais tant c'est bon là, pourquoi t'es quitté?'

'Paris me manque.'

'C'est tout?'

'Oui, c'est tout.'

He falls silent.

I'm not even French, but I said 'Paris me manque', and it's, in a way, true. I can be honest in this city. Well, except in Belleville, obviously, but neither in Dublin. Here, I am who I am, and I like it.

I finish my brunch and return to the apartment. Richard has had breakfast, as always. He glances at me. 'What did everyone say?'

'They weren't so surprised as I thought they'd be.'

'Tant pis.'

'Yeah.'

I take off the clothes as talking, and I feel Richard's attentive eyes on me with a weird light.

'Qu'est-ce que tu veux?' I throw him a glance.

He grabs the tee in my hand that I'm about to put on and drop it on the floor. 'T'as mis trop d'eye-liners.' He grins.

'So?'

'I like it.'

I roll my eyes.

'Gimme the tee.'

'It's not even your size.'

'I've been wearing it for ages and now you tell me this.'

'Nah. Mais c'est trop large.'

'Alors?'

'Jète-le!'

'Et qu'est-ce que je porte?'

'Des corsets.' He chuckles.

'Casse-toi.'

He mischievously raises an eyebrow.

Just the moment when I bend down to pick the tee up, a hand get up on my belly with an arm around my waist, and I'm thrown violently onto the bed. I find myself lying on my back, facing Richard whose eyes are shining.

'Mais non.' He smiles.

Our lips touch. At this very moment, I've realised how much I miss him, how much I miss this touch and this feeling. It seems to me that all these years that I've lived without him beside me have been empty, all empty.

His kiss is as gentle as ever. I close my eyes. His hands are warm around my cheeks, caressing slowly, but I can feel his impatience. He chews my lower lip, and - 'Hmm...' I let out a shaky moan - and shite, this definitely turns him on. He slides his tongue in, putting all his weight on me, and spares one hand to undress himself. He's so desirous; my breathing is all messed up, and I need air, but I also want to keep the contact.

I groan into the gap between our lips. Richard releases my mouth, a bit unwillingly, and traces down my neckline to bite the skin of my clavicles.

'Richie...' He licks my nipples, his fingers climbing up the length of my enormous, humid erection, amusing himself drawing circles around the head.

'You know what I want?' He whispers beside my ear, his breaths burning.

'I...Ugh!' His dick touches my crotch.

'Answer me.' He lingers at the entrance.

'Please, Rich...'

'Answer me, and I'll give you what you want.'

I feel hot. I want to speak, I want to answer him even though I've got nothing to say, but once I open my lips, nothing comes out but weak moans. I'm going to explode in this fire.

'Ugh, fuck...' I begin touching myself, 'Rich...'

He can't stay out for long after all. His full length forces in, and I'm pushed to the orgasm almost immediately. My neighbours must have heard it all.

Whatever.

I feel too good to regret just dying like this.

And you in some duplex by Glencullen River, sweetheart, you should've seen all this.

 

#### PART V

Why can't you hold me in the streets? Why can't I kiss you on the dance floor? I wish that we could be like that, why can't we be like that? 'Cuz I'm yours.

\- Little Mix·Secret Love Song

* * *

I love the Marais. Every pavement here has its own magic. My favourite, however, is simply to observe people below from my window, like a hawk. The ordinary people - Aren't they always so ridiculously adorable?

Nevertheless, I don't know what I'm going to do here. During my first time here, I had a contract with some local lads, but that wasn't enough to satisfy me. I've quit the job at Pine Forest, to everyone's surprise, and I have no more interest in being an artist - If I have ever been one at all, though. Certainly, I enjoy painting and all, but not as a profession. Once cold hard cash becomes the goal, what we do, even if we think that we still love it, will deteriorate.

Actually, I don't need to work at all if it's just to earn my life. Richard has got more money than necessary for both of us. From time to time, he does some shows which provides him with an extra salary to pay off our drinks.

So now you'd ask, 'Why didn't Richard help you during your bankruptcy?'

Good question.

I haven't told him. However close we are, I don't want him to know about it. It has nothing to do with trust. You love someone, and you hide the awkward things from them, that's all. Especially if this is TOO awkward. Frankly speaking, I'd foreseen a sharp fall, but being a bankrupt was far tougher than I'd expected. And this, this is one of the reasons why I wasn't so well prepared for what happened to me at Ciarán's place.

Richard believes, therefore, that I stayed in Dublin simply for art, and then I returned because Ciarán has crossed the line. So all in all, it's not completely a lie.

Anyway, we live in lies, don't we?

It's Christmas Eve. During this liveliest time of the year, everywhere are happy faces, colourful lights, and families - families together and merry - Is there one moment, one very short moment, when you feel tired of all the glories of this world?

Richard is always busy at this point. I'm long used to this; I've been spending Christmases alone since 18. And now, there's only me in this appartment, listening to the party music of my neighbours upstairs.

'Rich?' A girl's voice calls.

It's Kitty Riley.

'Yeah?' I walk towards the open door.

'You don't come over and party?'

'Nah.'

'I mean, I know you don't like these, say, loud music and -'

'Why, I do.'

'Well - But it's Christmas! I mean, everyone's singing and dancing tonight -'

'But that doesn't mean I have to.'

'Well then,' she rolls her eyes, 'happy Christmas.'

'Happy Christmas to you too.'

I remember the Christmases with my parents when I was young. They didn't quarrel that much yet, and every year, the dinner was the biggest and most exciting event for all. We'd place a Christmas tree in the middle of the living room, and me and my cousins would find gifts under it. There was always a crowd in the house, and I, at the age of 7 or 8, couldn't see anything but legs and feet.

After I turned 10, it all changed, for reasons that I'll never understand.

It's not sad at all to think about it, though.

The night has fallen, and I decide to go to bed early tonight, since I've truly got nothing to do. I say it again, I'm TIRED of all the joyful faces and this festive atmosphere in every brick of the buildings.

I take a quick shower. Then fuck, my phone rings. Without drying myself, I wrap my body up with a bath towel and answer it.

'Hello? Is that Mr Aron-Jake Sarsfield?'

I know this voice. 'Yeah.'

'Oh, um...Happy Christmas, sir.'

I can't help smiling. 'Thanks, Mark.'

He didn't forget me. At least, my number is still in his phone book.

'What made you think of me?' I ask.

'I...I don't know, sir-'

'You can leave that "sir" out now, you know. Call me Aron if you like.'

He lets out a small laugh. 'I just came back from Latin America. You should've been there; it was amazing!'

'Yeah, I know. I've passed there once. On a helicopter.'

'That's cool. But you've got to walk on the ground and feel it; it was really different.'

'I'll note that. And how do you feel back home?'

'I really missed the Christmas lights. I'm on O'Connell Street now and it's brilliant - Where are you now, s - Aron?'

It's, honestly, a bit weird to hear him call out this name. Weirdly...sexy. 'I was taking a shower.'

'Oh, well...Sorry.'

'Nah, it's alright.'

'But why do you take a shower this early? You're not going to bed at this hour, are you?'

'Well, I am, yeah.'

'Are you sick or something?'

'No, I'm good. I just WANNA go to bed.'

'But don't you usually stay up until next morning?'

'Those were the old days. I'm adjusting to a NORMAL schedule.'

'Jesus, you...haven't read those health mags, have you?'

'No, of course not.'

'Well...I wanted to ask you to come over, but if -'

'I'm in Paris, man.'

'Oh, well, great! Are there lights on the Eiffel Tower?'

'I...guess so, yeah. I don't know. I didn't go check it.'

'You can't see it from your window?'

'No, not here.'

'Well, okay, never mind.'

I've let him down, yeah. I can imagine the look in his blue eyes. He had never said 'never mind'.

'Is Nico with you?' I don't even know why I ask.

He goes silent for a short while before murmuring shyly, 'Yeah.'

'I bet he didn't go travel with you.'

'No, he didn't. But you know, I was...really afraid he would...Like...He sings in front of so many people, and he's really got a fanbase, and among them there ARE some really nice guys and...'

'Why didn't he go with you?'

'He said he's got some other business. I didn't ask more about it.'

'Pity.'

'Yeah, he actually WANNA go. But say,' he raises his voice a little, 'you don't go anywhere? I mean, parties, concerts or something?'

'I'm not really interested. They know each other and I don't know any of them. You know how that feels.'

'Then you just stay home?'

'Yeah. It's great, you know. I've spent Christmas Eves like this for years.'

'Maybe you can come over next year?'

'Maybe.'

'If you have time in November, we can go to the show on Grafton Street together. Nico said he might get invited to one of the concerts next year. To sing, I mean.'

'I hope so. But I've got to wait and see.'

'Then...that's it? Gotta go, I'm afraid.'

'Okay, happy Christmas.'

'You too, Aron.'

I've lied. I've got my plan. I'm sorry, sweetheart. As for Nicky, I'm afraid that Mark doesn't know who he's really going out with, but telling him the truth could kill him. So dangerous a secret it is.

Another question enters my head: Kitty Riley knows I'm here. She knows that I left, but I didn't tell her that I'd return. It's not that I don't like her; she's a lovely, nice girl. But above all, there's something she's not supposed to know which she knows. In fact, I'm more annoyed than worried.

What's more, she calls me RICH.

Before I left, for her, I was Jim or Jimmie; and now I'm Rich. Rich Brook. It's impossible that she thinks I'm Richard and Jim is still in Dublin; Richard is on tour EVERY Christmas, and she doesn't know anyone with the name Richard Brook before - as far as I know. It's also impossible that she's heard the noises we made while making love; she lives in another building.

She must know someone that I don't know. If it's true, Kitty, I'm going to be really sorry, but what should happen will happen.

Across the street, two boys are holding each other, kissing in the snow. I've never met them, but in a corner of my mind, I wish I could be one of them. However sick and tired I am about others' happiness, I wish that one day, Richard could hold me and kiss me like this. I can only WISH. It's meant to be always a dream.

I lie on the bed. Richard's side is cold. I cover it with the eiderdown.

Happy Christmas to myself.

 

#### PART IV

Des machines bizzares, des cahiers saturés. Là, c'était ma première guitare, tu vois.

\- Calogero·C'Est D'Ici Que Je Vous Écris

* * *

It's already November. I didn't go to Dublin as Mark expected, and he didn't ask me why. I've disappointed him, definitely, and it hurts a little.

A guy came up to me yesterday and begged me to do him a favour. Of course, I was not in the mood for it, but I don't deny that he was a very cute boy. He had a polite and a little shy tone, a sincere and beautiful smile, and INNOCENT eyes. If he had wanted to make friends with me, it would be okay; but he wanted my help, and it's always a no.

To my surprise, he came again. I enter Le Wood, and he's there waiting for me.

'T'as un ami là, je crois.' Damien says to me while glancing at him.

'C'est pas un ami.'

'Mais il a l'air gentil.'

'Oui, mais c'est pas un ami.'

I'm not sure that he understands.

The boy stands up and walks over. 'Hi.' He smiles nervously.

'Easy, easy. I'm here for bruch; I won't eat you.'

He lets out a little laugh. 'So what do you -'

'I said no, Harry.'

'No chance at all?'

'No.'

'But please, Mr -'

'If you don't stop, I'll go.'

He stares at me with those clear eyes. Then, he catches me by the wrist, 'But you haven't eaten anything yet.'

Jeez. He's determined to make me stay.

'Right,' I sigh, sitting back, 'you want me to take you back to Dublin?'

'Yeah. And I'd love it if you take me to Ste.'

I press my index finger against the temple, ' Do you just want him THAT much?'

The boy lowers his head and smiles, not responding.

'And MUST you come to ME?'

He swallows. 'You're...I know you may have heard this a thousand times, but you're the most powerful person in Western Europe, and I NEED to find Ste.'

'I'll take that compliment,' I laugh, 'even it makes my eardrums callous.'

'So...that's a yes?' He leans forward.

I sigh, 'I didn't say that.' Avoiding the disappoint in his eyes, I add, 'But I can think about it. If your reward is satisfying enough, you may get what you need.'

'Well, that's...it's really nice of you, thanks a mill!' He exclaims, fiddling with his fingers nervously, 'And...um, what do you want as reward?'

'Well, I'll need your assistance at some point in the future, and I'd like you to be there when I need you.'

'What kind of assistance?'

'I can't tell you specifically now, but it won't be the fighting and killing sort of mission, so you'll be back home safe and sound, I assure you.'

He stares at the table. I'm not really expecting him to accept, but it seems that he takes it rather seriously. Finally, he clears his throat and goes, 'Look, if I take the conditions, you PROMISE to take me to Ste, right?'

'Yes, of course, I promise.'

He slowly leans forward, putting his elbows on the table.

'Deal?'

'Well...yeah, deal.'

'So that's it,' I finish the rest of my mocha and get up, 'call me when you're ready to go.' I tap in his hand the little note with my number, and leave.

I'd seen this guy, Harry Thompson. He doesn't frequent Le Wood, so when I saw him there, I knew that something fun has happened. He asked me if I could find him a private jet or something like that and accompany him on the way back to Dublin. He wanted to see Steven Hay wherever he was, and when I said that Ste was with Brendan Brady in a pub called Johnnie Fox's, he was over the moon. They met in high school, and they were in love with each other. Afterwards, Ste left Manchester for Dublin, while Harry chose to go back to Hollyoaks and take a break. At first, they were in touch; but as time passed, Harry heard less and less from Ste. Eventually, about two years ago, he lost all contact with him. I listened to him, and I understood to what an extent he missed him all the time. I told him that Ste was doing very well with Brendan in Dublin, and there was a shade of joy, fear and tenderness in his azure irises. I began to understand the fear of Mark. _On dit que le temps est ton meilleur ami, que tout fini toujours par tomber dans l'oubli._ It's probably true.

Walking into the bedroom, I see the clipping from the papers of the day before yesterday, attached in the letter that dear Mr Crayhill, my friend in London, had sent me. ARSENIC TRIOXIDE FOUND IN DUBLIN ART GALLERY PAINTINGS, reads the title. It says that arsenic trioxide has been detected in the paintings donated by Aron-Jake Sarsfield, the artist who was accused for commercial fraud one and a half years ago. It also says that the artist has left his will in the studio Ciarán O'Toole rent him, and they suspect that he has committed suicide, but the body hasn't yet been found. In the letter, Mr Crayhill told me about how he blew up another skyscraper. It's boring, to be honest, and not necessary at all.

Obviously, I didn't suicide. I simply wrote a big 'DEAD IS THE NEW SEXY' on the wall with a spray gun. And yeah, I stuck a note on the door, reading 'slán' and signed 'J'. When the night fell, I abandoned the car in Gaurdini Uibh Eachach, and I'm pretty sure that they think I buried my art facilities as well as myself there. It will take forever to find them.

No one recognises me in France. Not as the 'dead' artist, I mean. Anyway, I'm leaving soon. Christmas is near, and Harry will call me in a few days.

I don't worry about being recognised in Dublin either. I just need another set of makeup, and that's a piece of cake.

One week later, Harry asks me if we can set off.

I lock all the windows and doors of every room. Richard is with one of his friends in the theatre; I leave him a message, and take Harry in my jet, returning to Dublin.

'He's working in a pub,' Harry murmurs suddenly after some thirty minutes of silence, 'Ste.'

He isn't talking to anyone. His eyes are fixed on nothing. Even though it has been such a long time, the moment we first met, I still noticed on him immediately the same scent Brendan had - The scent of Ste. Such a beautiful scene it will be, these two together, I said to myself.

'Who else is there?' He asks, 'Apart from Brendan, I mean.'

'No one.'

'Not even Cheryl?'

Cheryl? Cheryl who? Judging from the expression on Harry's face, it's a woman whom he knows well, and whom he thinks I know well too. It's someone who should be there but is not. But anyway, I'm sure there's no one called Cheryl among the staffs at Johnnie Fox's. 'No, she's not there.'

'That's weird. She said she's gonna be staying with Brendan.'

That's it. She's probably Brendan's sister, seen that the latter is coupled with Ste. And she was going to stay with her brother, that means she said that before leaving - leaving Hollyoaks, maybe. Or there's a slightly more dramatic version of the story: Cheryl is Brendan's ex; she still loves him, and she wants him back. 'I don't know, but she's obviously not there. I haven't seen here anywhere.'

'Brendan didn't say where she was?'

'No. Neither did Ste.'

'But that's his sister! They were really close, and she got on well with Ste too.'

Shite, This guy reads my mind. He tells me all I want to know, yes, but he KNOWS what to tell me. He probably knows that I don't know Cheryl, or he wouldn't say so much about the sister of his love's partner. 'Ste didn't tell me about YOU either.' I try to change the topic.

He pouts a little, 'I understand.'

'I'm sorry,' I see that it makes him feel bad, 'I wanna say that it's normal that he didn't talk about Cheryl. He didn't tell me about anyone.'

'He's just like that.'

'Oh, well.' This guy is not very ready for this conversation, evidently. If Ste is always like that, it's not weird at all that he didn't tell me stories of others.

'We were in high school,' he says in a calm voice, 'but we weren't close at first. Ste's a bad boy, picking up girls and all. Then one day, it rained and my umbrella was broken, and he sent me home. I didn't know why he did it, but at that moment I thought, Oh, he's so nice. But he didn't mention it the next day. I thanked him again that morning, and he was like, Nah, that's nothing - But you know, he literally walked all the way back home with me, holding his umbrella above me, and he lived in the opposite direction! Then one day, he called me to the garden behind our building, and he said, "Harry Thompson, I've been watching you for half a year." And I was like, No, wait, what, is he from the Hydra?' He can't help a chuckle, and shakes his head. 'Then he went, "I like you."' He pauses, blushing slightly, 'I didn't know what to say. I mean, I like him too, but I felt like it's...I don't know, but it's not just, like, you like your buddy. It's just like, you want him to see you do all the cool things, you want him to know when you're feeling bad and you want his comfort, and when he can't see you, you feel sad and a bit lost, but you fear that sticking around him all day long makes him uncomfortable or makes it too obvious.' He sighs, 'You know what I mean, yeah?'

'I...well, sort of, yeah.' No, I don't. At school, I was always alone. The other guys didn't bully me, but they didn't make friends with me either. When I smiled and greeted them, they smiled and greeted me; when I needed help, they helped me; when I was praised, they applauded. But that was all. I didn't exist in THEIR world.

Harry stares at me, doubting whether I really understand. Honestly, if he told his story to Mark, he would feel better than this. Mark understands. He knows all these feelings that I haven't experienced. 'You do?' Harry asks me, 'Who was it? May I know?'

'No.' I say coldly.

'Oh, well, okay. Never mind.' He looks down, smiling.

Silence once again fills the space.

'I'd like to know more about you.' Harry gets up and comes sitting beside me.

I avoid his eyes. Which version should I say? 'Nothing interesting.'

'People always say so about themselves.'

'I meant it.'

'Oh, no, you don't. You have a childhood, a family -'

'I don't have any family.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought -'

'I'm not an orphan, don't feel bad about it.'

'Then what happened?'

I sigh. 'My parents quarrelled all the time, with each other, with me, with my grandparents.'

'You didn't call the police?'

'Oh, man, you know I still needed their money.'

'Is that all your...your parents and grandparents meant to you?'

'My parents, yes. My grandparents were nice. They loved me.'

'So it wasn't all bad, right?'

'They died when I was 15.'

'Oh, sorry.'

'It's okay.'

'And then what?'

'I left the house.'

'Oh no. You just abandoned everything and left?'

'Yep.'

'And your parents didn't go searching for you?'

'I don't know.'

'Oh.'

'Told you there's nothing interesting.'

'Sounds like you're hiding something.'

I sneer. 'You're not that threatening.'

Harry tilts his head to one side. He opens his lips, and closes them. Finally, he asks cautiously, 'Do all Irish people have difficulty pronouncing "th"?'

'Not all. Many, though.'

'But how?' He can't help a smile at the corner of his mouth, 'You just bite your own tongue, it's easy.'

'You know, if you say this to a random Irish guy, you may get a good punch.'

'I know,' he raises an eyebrow, 'so I say it to YOU.'

'It's a compliment?'

'Yep.'

I slowly nod. The boys looks at me with these naughty eyes. After a while, he looks away.

I've understand, I think, why Ste likes him - or liked him. I found him rather attractive too. He speaks with a flat but pleasant tone, he has that emotion in his look. It seems like he never gets angry, that he never cries, that he's always happy. I like him as much as I hate him.

We land before long.

'Is there a mailbox near the pub?' Harry suddenly asks.

'Yeah, of course,' I frown, 'and a green telephone stand, if you wanna know.'

'I used to write to him.'

'And he never writes back.'

'No.'

'I know why.'

'Yeah?'

'But I can't tell you.'

'Wh -'

'Merci, Damien.' I cut Harry's words and exclaim into the cockpit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a mill! And sorry thar this chapter has taken more time to finish 'cause I couldn't type the accents and quotation marks directly on my keyboard (I didn't know there's a French keyboard lol)...And I've always got piles of homework...This is the last chapter before my CEE which I'll take on 7th and 8th, and then I'll go to Jinan and I'll be back on 11th, and I'll probably kick off Chapter III a few days later.  
> 'On dit que le temps est ton meilleur ami, que tout fini toujours par tomber dans l'oubli.' is a line from _L'Éclipse_ by Calogero.  
>  PS The descriptions of Jim's family is to a certain extent the reality in my family (not THAT bad as I wrote, of course, so don't you worry), and I find that writing them down is a really good relief...Sorry, it's too depressive!


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